How I Made Dad Proud

After reading my dear friend Chuck’s account of his colonoscopy, I was reminded of an event that will forever be etched into my brain. Although Chuck still has that portion of his brain intact that allows him to edit himself, sparing you all from the horrid details of his excrement adventure that day, I am lacking that function.

I was probably 14 or 15 years old when I had an excrement experience that will be etched into my brain until the day I die. It was summer and I had been on the picnic circuit for days — my colon was crammed full with burgers and dogs, BBQ chicken, chips, and all the other gastronomic delights that can be found at summer picnics at the Jersey shore. It had been at least four or five days since I had released a grunion, and I could tell that when the time came, it was going to be a workout. Finally my water broke, and I knew that delivery was well on the way. I retired to the bathroom, sat, and prepared for battle.

The pressure was intense. I grunted and stretched my cheeks as wide as possible and tried to force the rabbit out of his hole; but I was unsuccessful. It felt as if it had a head on it from all of the back-up behind it. I pushed and hoped that my distressed sphincter would open wide enough to allow the thing to pass.

Now ten minutes in to the ordeal, I began to sweat and breathe heavily as it finally started through. I rested my head against the wall, gripped the bowl for dear life, and kept squeezing.

And then — it was moving! The head crowned and I could feel it starting to pass faster. It was exhilarating — one last grunt and the behemoth was out.

I was both afraid and extremely curious to look into the depths below at what I knew was lying beneath the water. I sat for another minute to regain my composure and slow my breathing to a normal pace. When I reached back to wipe my distended hole, I was amazed that there wasn’t any blood or hanging organs, and only very light skid marks. Another swipe or two and the paper was clean; so I stood and got my first look at the monster.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. On average it was as thick as a can of soda, and about 18 inches long. I could tell the length because it had fallen across the hole and didn’t go straight down it.

I flushed, hoping it would break and go down, but lady luck was being a bitch that day. Only the paper went down. The creature simply spun in the bowl like Satan’s Spirograph, leaving circular skid marks around the porcelain.

I tried in vain three more times to flush it away, but it wouldn’t leave. So I did what any 15-year-old would do: I got my dad.

Dad came in, looked in horror into the bowl, looked at me, looked into the bowl, looked back at me, and said, “Oh my god, are you OKAY!??!”

We shared a chuckle and he disappeared, returning armed with a piece of wood. We were laughing hysterically as he broke the beast into pieces so that it would flush.

Finally, Moby Shit disappeared into its watery grave.

To this day, more than 20 years later, my dad and I still laugh about it. I have not been able to reproduce that masterpiece since.